Abstract

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:738 Feminist Studies 42, no. 3. © 2016 by Feminist Studies, Inc. Hannah Baker Saltmarsh Notice When I read people’s necks, waiting on the same wheels: make out the names, Rabbit, Omar, Tiny, Mark, Deedy, Soulja, like characters on a new Netflix series that uses people’s real names; or say, trace up to the teardrop on the cheek, either you murdered someone or was someone’s little b in prison (the difference as slight as pushing on the door bell or tapping the door knocker); or stray to the stains on the forearm, hand, calf. Above his stab wounds in all caps: LAUGH NOW and SILENT; beneath the life-saving laser’s scar, FUCK THE WORLD. The skulls, keys, infringed-upon peacock, grim reaper, the crescent city, fire: am I really to identify the latest sex offender, crimes expired for a decade now like a plastic rack of eggs in the bachelor’s trash, by his tattoos listed on this postcard notice, mass-mailed to the surrounding neighborhoods, and angrily shredded by mothers who wouldn’t let near their child a grown man with a kite? The last time you saw a man at a bar with some woman’s name across his neck like an exaggerated noose a diamond can’t touch, you wondered how he hits on other women. If you Google your friend’s date, some pictures check out with his baseball stats. Or your other friend, Googling her landlord, sees he was arrested at a protest, the tousled, enlightened 36-hour criminal who ends up in a Michael Moore movie, and becomes her lover without end, buying her black Prada sheath dresses and a holster of antique cream Hannah Baker Saltmarsh 739 and vintage pink carnations. Every new man in anyone’s life you know makes you paranoid of dirt: even the pages not found become suspicious in your paranoia: Humvees shot to fossils by Sahara sands. What if the postcard notice had a face you knew, a man you actually knew before his mugshot.com photo op, before the teardrop tat? Him and his puppet-friend, purple, called Homer, who said Do good and share, but don’t share your underwear, showing up in the mail. Are the allegations true: the church retreat, the elementary-class sleepover, the partner in the frazzled chicken costume, the puppet as witness, gang-raping the girl with plastic teal jewelry who then peed herself? I weep, reading the file, thinking of the older girl being returned to her sleeping bag beside all of ours. We didn’t know she went anywhere but the bathroom. When the news breaks, my mother and I have the same nightmare about the underwear song. My parents remembered he liked plain M&M’s, not peanut. He told us after years of buying the wrong ones. And I felt so bad we got the wrong ones. How could we get it wrong? I can’t Google my way to knowing, or ask his wife at Starbucks, but every notice reminds me of the IZOD alligators he tickled on boys’ shirts. So ill now, and confused, what would he even say for himself, and who would care longer than the blurb’s echo? All you can do is wait for the late bus. Two hours late, the usual, and we’re still jammed into the covered bench. A goose, built like a hanger, born in the gated university’s pond, shot out so far as the university bus stop, body just out of the sheltered wait, as if anxious to start somewhere. 740 Hannah Baker Saltmarsh Index of Jobs for Women I would have been a confectioner, not Shakespeare’s sister, whirring a dozen egg whites into soft collapsible peaks for baked rice pudding with black-blue currants, stirring yeasty sourdough starter a few times a day until it ferments vigorously, quicker in summer: a week to evolve. I would have tried to find a way to the youngest Saltmarsh who lives by the brackish waters, tall sea grasses, canals by crocodiles, and sedges with their edges, whose heart is bigger than his head, whose narrow bikeway of a torso might have said, on the last...